


Our Lady of the Highways

by ishafel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One she loses, one she throws away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Lady of the Highways

The last time Ellen fucks John Winchester is the night he comes to tell her that her husband is dead. He hands her Billy's gun, and the knife Billy always carried, the one she gave him for their tenth anniversary that had his initials engraved on the blade. He tells her that he's sorry. He cries. Ellen doesn't.

She pulls his head down and kisses him hard, hard enough to make the split in his lip bleed. He doesn't kiss her back, not right away. Maybe he thinks that she's crazy. Maybe he thinks about her husband, how there wasn't enough left of Billy's body to be worth burying. Nothing left now but salt and ashes and Ellen's cold bed.

His mouth is rough on her breast, and his stubble itches. His fingers are hard between her legs. She isn't sure why she thought he would be gentle--why she thought he'd think she deserves gentleness. John's wife is ten years dead and her loss defines him; there's no room in him for kindness or for sympathy. He isn't kind to his sons, though she believes that he loves them, and he didn't spare poor dead Billy's sins when he told her his story.

She's conscious suddenly of his size. He's much bigger than her, heavier. He hurts her a little when he rolls her over. She doesn't know if she asks, if he'd stop. She's closed the bar. Jo's at her sister's. If she screams there's no one to hear. She doesn't scream. Doesn't want him to stop. He pushes inside her from behind, and for a minute she thinks he's too big, that he won't--. For a minute the pain is blinding. He's still, quiet against her back, and she can feel him stretching her. He's bigger than Billy was, longer and wider. Bigger than anyone else she was ever with, and in this position he's almost too deep inside her.

She's not sure which of them moves first, a slow careful rocking like the tide coming in, washing the pain away. She's excited now, with him rubbing against her, touching places she didn't know she had. His fingernail scrapes her clit, agonizing and amazing. This isn't how she likes it. Tonight her husband is dead. Tonight she likes it.

Tonight she lies with her face pressed against the sheet, all her attention on the man inside her. When he finally comes, it's enough to send her hurtling over the edge, her fingers clutching at nothing, teeth bared. She feels ugly, dirty, cheap. She's just fucked a man in her dead husband's bed.

He pulls out and lies beside her, panting at first. After a while his breathing steadies, and he starts to snore. Her thighs are bruised and her cunt aches. She feels tears threatening, and squeezes them away. She gets up, washes herself, dresses. Finds Billy's gun where she left it, on the table. She loads it, and she chambers a round.

John's dead asleep. He must have driven all day, and half the night, to make such good time. She shakes him awake, and he stares at her, eyes haunted. "Get the hell out of my house," she says, and raises the gun. He doesn't ask why, just grabs for his jeans and boots and coat. He's still wearing his shirt. She waits while he dresses hastily, watching him, the gun heavy in her hand. She slept with this man behind her husband's back. She bore his child. She listened while he told her how he killed her husband.

She follows him to the door, waits in the doorway while he limps across the parking lot to his car. She's crying now, and she doesn't know when she started. "Don't ever come the fuck back here," she screams at his set shoulders, and she knows he hears her but he doesn't turn. After a moment his headlights carve a hole in the darkness, his engine rumbling to life. She slams the door against the night, drops the gun against the table. Doesn't watch him driving away from her.


End file.
